Poems of Places Oceana 1 V.; England 4; Scotland 3 V: Iceland, Switzerland, Greece, Russia, Asia, 3 America 5, Volume 5

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Page 161 - Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, How often have I loitered o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endeared each scene...
Page 198 - THE harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls, As if that soul were fled. — So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no inore.
Page 161 - Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here, as I take my solitary rounds...
Page 161 - The dancing pair that simply sought renown By holding out to tire each other down ; The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter tittered round the place ; The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove...
Page 10 - That still kept hoping on, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow — I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break, When the hunger pain was gnawin...
Page 193 - ON the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I ; No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray. When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, She said, (while the sorrow was big at her heart) Oh ! remember your Sheelah when far, far away ; And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.
Page 90 - OH ! once the harp of Innisfail Was strung full high to notes of gladness ; But yet it often told a tale Of more prevailing sadness. Sad was the note, and wild its fall, As winds that moan at night forlorn Along the isles of Fion-Gall, When, for O'Connor's child to mourn, The harper told, how lone, how far From any mansion's twinkling star, From any path of social men, Or voice, but from the fox's den, The lady in the desert dwelt ; And yet no wrongs...
Page 161 - How often have I paused on every charm— The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm; The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill; The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made!
Page 44 - JULY the first, in Oldbridge town,* There was a grievous battle, Where many a man lay on the ground, By the cannons that did rattle, King James he pitched his tents between The lines for to retire ; But King William threw his bomb-balls in, And set them all on fire.
Page 176 - Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping, Fate bids me languish long ages away; Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping, Still doth the pure light its dawning delay. When will that day-star, mildly springing, Warm our isle with peace and love ? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit to the fields above?

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